


Dark Corners

by just_kiss_already



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, Gang Rape, Gendered Insults, Gun Violence, Guns, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4150425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max is only salvaging, he's not going back for any other reason. Or at least he tries to tell himself that. But the raiders got there first, and they know what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trade

**Author's Note:**

> The language is a little odd. It's told from Max's PoV and he seems a little rusty on the whole language skills thing. I tried to reflect that. I don't know enough Australian slang to be really authentic, though. Anyhoot.  
> Beta'd by me, posted as I write. Please be gentle! Hope everyone enjoys!

The killing was the worst part. And he didn't even know why he'd done it.

Though really, if he is true with himself, he knew why he'd done it. 

Traveling out, he'd followed the endless wreckage left in their wake, his Interceptor back in his possession as a parting gift sent to him from Furiosa. 

It'd been driven fully stocked out to him by a War Boy, no longer shiny half life warriors but now just skinny boys with black thumbs. Seeing the skinny torso with ribs and wiry muscle, the pale sunken eyes, it'd made him remember. Given him uncomfortable thoughts. Things he kept buried under survival instinct and fear. 

Max'd pushed the feelings away, told himself he'd just be a fool to leave the wrecked and exploded vehicles untouched to be buried under sand. He'd need all the resources he could get. Didn't matter what. Guzzoline, oil, parts if possible. Food even. Anything. Weapons. Bullets. 

He'd ignored the nagging questions raising up a storm in the back of his mind, threatening. Ignored the fact that his hallucinations came less frequently and were less aggressive, less deadly, now simply leading him forward. 

Ever forward to the rocks. 

The raiders watch him scrounge. Watch his false calm, his false nonchalance. Safe up in the rocks on their bikes. Watching. 

He doesn't find much. The flames had been pretty thorough. 

His heart feels fit to burst and heavy as steel, all at once. Bad feelings. 

When the raiders finally come, he only thinks about his car. Thankful he'd hidden her a ways out, draped her in canvas and half buried her in sand. He wasn't losing her again. 

His guns hold them at bay, but they aren't there for the fighting. They aren't savage. 

They want to trade. 

Max knows damn all well what they have. He grits his teeth, fingering the trigger on his shotgun. Blast them all and get away. Don't listen, don't look, walk away. Let the next fool that rolls to a stop here barter. 

But the skinny, beaten, damaged thing they drag down makes him sick and sad and anxious and he knew he'd lost. 

Sure enough it was Nux. Damn it all to the sun and back. 

Looking half dead but patched up. Barely awake, tied on the back of the bike to the driver to keep from falling off. They'd stitched him, bandaged him, cleaned him. Crude cast on one broken arm. Dressed him in patchwork rags like they wore, covered the pale and fragile chest. 

"Guzzoline," the raider in the front states simply. "All you got." 

Keep their bikes running so they can protect their piece of land, shit that it was. 

Max grunts, keeping his eyes off of Nux as they untie him and let him drop to the sand. Ignoring the angry pain in his head and chest. "Don't want him." 

Dirty lie. 

The raider shrugs. "We take it anyway. Dead or alive, you give it up." 

Max furrows his brows, frowning furiously, spitting mad. Stupid stupid idea to come back here. "Half." 

The raider glances back at his comrades and shrugs again to say good enough. 

"Two'll go with you. Make sure you don't run." 

Max shakes his head. No way he leads them to his stuff, end up dead cut up and they take it all. 

The raider squirrels up his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "You don't come back before night? He dies. Badly. Don't need another mouth to feed." He grins, showing missing or blackened teeth. "Use him to feed other mouths, get it?" 

Max wants to spit. Wants to shoot them all and take his boy-- 

His boy? 

\--and go. To hell with this bargain. To hell with these cannibal threats. 

Instead, he goes. Fast walk, hard over the sand, not running but wanting to. 

He makes a little sled out of a tarp and rope to haul a good amount of guzzoline back. Not half, but close enough. Damn it all. It's nasty work, dragging it behind, weighing too damn much, weight of bad decisions and bad emotions he thought he'd killed. 

Dangerous close to sunset when he makes it back. Sweating and snarling, more feral by the minute, he unties the rope from around his chest one-handed, shotgun loose and easy in his other hand. No reason to be dumb about it, go defenseless. 

There's a good amount of raiders now, spread out, about twelve or so of them. A couple have a little cooking fire going with a pot on it, including the deal-maker. Another couple are crowded around an outcropping of rock, laughing low nasty laughs. It's a sort of natural small hollow, a tiny cave. No Nux. 

He swings the shotgun up, aims at the leader. He snorts at the sight of it. 

"He's safe! Got him there," he says, pointing at the cave. 

"Bring him out." 

The raider whistles, a nasty piercing sound; the crowd by the cave looks over, starts dispersing. A couple of remaining raiders drag a dishevelled pile of something to the cooking fire. Nux, but his borrowed raider clothes in disarray, cheeks swollen and red from being hit. 

Max snarls again, enraged. "He's hurt." 

The leader stands, drags Nux to his feet. The boy sways, panting, paler than ever as blood drains from his face. He looks ready to pass out. He also won't meet Max's eyes, won't say nothing to him, ducks his head and stoops his shoulders. Shame is strong, almost a smell. 

"Not much guzzoline there," the leader say, sniffing, pointing his chin at the pile. 

It's the last damn thing he says. 

The shotgun blast takes him full in the face, blows part of it off. 

Max drops the shotgun and goes for the pistols tucked up around him. Nux falls, thankfully, scrabbling in the sand to get out of the line of fire, smart road roach. Survival. You don't live out here without knowing how to survive. 

Max runs towards the boy, shooting raiders, years of fighting for his life giving him true and sharp aim. He picks a couple raiders off easy enough, even running. 

He drops one of the guns, empty, in favour of hooking his hand under Nux's arm and dragging him along. Boy's as light as a damn feather. 

They pop behind some rocks and wait. 

The raiders are whistling, yelling, but the shooting's stopped. Quiet falls after a minute. 

"You got the boy," a new voice calls. New leader, Max guesses. "Go on." 

No one wants to waste ammo. They know why he shot, they know why he's angry, they're willing to accept that and the guzzoline and let him go. 

They might come after him, come morning when things have been organised, but for now he just wants away. Is glad for the opportunity. 

Max waits a while longer, though. Waits and breathes and listens to Nux breathing beside him. Feels him leaning ever so slightly against his arm. Glad for the feeling despite himself. 

After a century of waiting he peeks out. The raiders, the guzzoline, and Max's dropped guns are gone. The cooking tools packed up, sand kicked on the fire to douse it. 

For all he knows, they got snipers up in the rocks, waiting. But if they kill him now they maybe don't find his car, his stash. Hopefully they're smart enough to remember that. 

Scrambling out, he lets himself be a target for a minute before motioning for Nux to come out. 

They hightail it away. 

As Max drags the tarp off of the car, clears the sand away, no words are spoken. 

Instead, silent but near to glowing with angry panic, he strips out of the raider's clothes and starts giving himself a sand bath. 

That's a first for Max and he's a little confused by it. Won't do much for a person, not the way the kid is flinging it around, not even scrubbing really, but Max supposes it's more the symbol of it versus the reality. Averting his eyes, he gathers the clothes up, unwilling to waste a potential resource, tucks them down in a bag and drags out some clothes Furiosa or someone had packed. Pants, shirt, boots. Black but loose. Light fabric. 

Nux is sitting silent in the sand, head down. Pale back glowing in the rising moon, the knobs of his spine prominent. 

Quiet as anything, just the whisper of sliding sand to announce him, Max walks over and sits next to the boy. He doesn't think about much, ignores the fact the raiders could be mounting a hunting party, could be close already. Curse them all. 

He doesn't know what the damned hell he'd doing anymore. This sure isn't survival. This isn't thinking smart. This is instinct, but the instinct of emotion. Borne of suffering and sorrow. 

Max holds the clothes out without looking, just releases them when he feels Nux take hold. The boy pulls them on without standing up. 

Neither wants to stand. To move. This feels... sacred. Safe. 

He doesn't flinch when he feels the boy's bony fingers crawl into his hand, instead he just wraps his hand around it the way he would a child. Not fingers intertwined but still a tight grip from them both. A dying grip. 

When the moon starts nearing the middle of the sky, finally Nux lets go, gets up. Max clambers to his feet too and they both get in the car. Time to go.


	2. Sleep

Max always sleeps in the car. Normally he'd stretch his legs out in the passenger seat, as much as he could, but it wasn't happening now.

No where else to sleep, though. 

He'd have to start thinking what to do, this was a rough way to sleep, especially for his bad leg.

Nux just curls up in his seat, one leg stretched out while the other is pulled fetal to his chest.

Night in the desert gets cold enough. Max drags a couple blankets out, one each plus one between them if it's needed.

He's mostly asleep when the car door opens and Nux falls out, gagging. Vomiting.

Max waits a minute, uncertain. He wants to sleep. Wants to be ready to drive in the morning, away from the raiders. Wants to not get involved.

But he can't. He's already involved.

Bewildered, he opens his door and goes to the other side, blanket in hand to wrap around the dry-heaving boy.

Nux spits, spits again. His face scrunches up, Max thinks at first anger then realises. Nux is trying to damnedest not to cry. 

Without a word, Max wraps the blanket tighter around him and pulls him slowly into a hug. 

Stiff against him, Nux still buries his face in Max's neck, long fingers tight in the leather of his jacket. The boy's breathing is steadier now, he's inhaling a little deeper, less shaky shuddering breath. Max squeezes him tighter, closer, without even knowing why.

"It wasn't much," Nux whimpers quiet against his skin. His breath is chilly and wet. He buries his face a little deeper, rubbing against Max's scruffy beard. "I never... at the citadel..."

Max wants to tell him to shush, that it's okay to be quiet. But he knows it's selfishness to say that. Nux needs to talk, let him talk. Let him spill some of the pain out of his mouth with every word. 

"I knew a little, what people do... Some war boys did it together... I didn't, I thought it was impure..." A long deep inhale. Good. It'll help calm him. Max rubs his back encouragingly, up and down. "The raiders only u-... used my mouth..."

Max's stomach rolls, his eyes burn, he wants to clutch his boy to him forever, he wants to weep for him, he wants to burn the world.

"I got you," Max grunts. "I'll keep you safe."

They sit, quiet, wrapped up together. Nux smells like car grease and guzzoline and the blanket and the open outback sky. Max wonders what he smells like.

It's a peaceful silence. A part of him hurts though that his chatterbox war boy has been beaten down into a quiet refugee.

Max leans back against his car, pulling Nux with him. The gangly boy rests his head on Max's chest and arranges himself against him, blanket pulled tight against the chill. Max just ignores the cold though. He doesn't want to go grab his own blanket, doesn't care at this point.

As his breathing slows and deepens, synching with Nux's own, he wraps an arm around the boy's shoulders, pulling him close as if trying to use his body to shield him. As shelter. Protection.


	3. Treat

No raiders. Nothing on the horizon, and Max is skirting any settlements so nothing in front either. He's driving without aim at the moment. Looking for what to salvage, scavenge. No plan beyond that.

Feeling safe enough, he stops, stretches his legs. It's late afternoon, cooling down but still plenty warm. He yawns hard and feels his jaw pop. Rough sleeping the past week or so. Always the same. He gets out, lays a blanket down next to the car, they huddle against it. Against each other. Not the most comfortable, gets him restless, makes him feel awkward. But Nux sleeps hard, his head heavy on Max's chest. A grounding weight. Pleasant. 

Grabbing his tactical vest from the back, Max shuffles through the pockets until he finds some dried fruit. Courtesy the Citadel. Not much remains.

He stares at the little translucent orangey bits. No clue what they are. Sweet. Chewy. Soft.

The other car door opens, slams shut. Nux stands and stretches, his shirt lifting, revealing his concave stomach. Max frowns, worries. Not enough food to last long for two. The back of his mind curses his choices. Curses his humanity. 

Max holds out his hand and grunts, settling down on the hood of the car, one boot heel resting on the bumper. Curious, Nux sits next to him and accepts the offer. 

"What is it?" he asks, eyes pebbly bright with wonder. 

"Fruit."

Max watches Nux out of the corner of his eye. The boy sniffs, licks, then nibbles a piece. Frowns, then smiles a little.

"Sweet!" he rasps, excited. 

"Mm."

As Nux slowly, carefully, chews, plays with each piece in his mouth, he reaches out across Max and snags the paracord bracelet he wears with his slender fingers. 

"What's this?"

Seems the war boy is finding his voice again. Max isn't entirely sure he's pleased. "Paracord. Useful for different things. Take it apart for strong rope and string."

Nux nods, rubbing his fingers over the thick strands, rotating the band on Max's wrist.

Long quiet this time. 

"I don't know your name."

Max blinks, scratches his neck, caught off guard.

"Can't call you bloodbag, doesn't seem right."

Max tilts his head and turns to look at the boy, eyebrows knitted. He hates giving his name anymore. But, somehow, this is different. "Max."

The war boy laughs, again surprising him. "Our names! They're so close!"

Standing up, Max looks out at the horizon, scanning to keep busy. He feels heat on the back of his neck, blood rushing. He feels awkward. 

The hand that presses against the middle of his back makes the heat rise up again, up into his face. He can't look at the boy. 

His boy. 

"Max. Nux. Max." The hand, unexpectedly big. But Nux is all length and lank, he's all long limbs and no weight. Like a bird. Hollow bones.

Max remembers carrying him, draped over his shoulders.

Unlucky boy. Always getting the short end. 

The hand creeps up, glides, rests between his shoulder blades. Higher still, fingers brush his hair. Max shivers. 

He clenches his jaw, thoughts empty but chest full of a war. Conflict inside of himself.

Without thinking, pushing it all aside, he turns and wraps Nux up in his arms. Pulls him tight and close in a bear hug, the boy's face buried against his chest. No stiffness this time. No restraint. Nux just melts against him from the get go.

Max just holds him, chin resting on the hairless scalp. Nux can't grow hair, most war boys can't he was told, it's the sickness that infects everyone these days. His skin feels so thin. So delicate. 

Nux makes a noise against his chest, it takes Max a minute to process. It was "please."

Thinking he's hurting the boy, he lets go, concerned, stepping back. But he's not hurting him. He knows the look on Nux's face, knows that flushed cheek and parted lips, feels his body respond in kind.

"Please," Nux murmurs.

"You don't know what you're asking," Max says, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "'Sides, you shouldn't be asking me. You should be going to the Citadel and ask Capable if she'll show you. Don't... just settle for the first thing you see."

"You rusted bastard, that isn't what this is! Beside, she's pure, shiny, not like me."

The word purity makes Max sick, makes him angry. "Purity? Everyone's done shit they aren't proud of! No one out here is pure anymore!" The word purity just spits on all the people he's cared for. "It's a damn busted shit concept! It doesn't mean anything! Feelings. Feelings is what matter!"

"I feel safe with you. I feel good."

"Safer at the Citadel."

"Blast you! You- you-!!! I never felt like this, don't you dare spit on it! I-..." His eyes shine hard, shine wet and dripping, and Max's mouth dries. "You came back, Max. You came back to look when no one else did."

Max stares down at the shifting hot sand, uncertain. He... The tight heat in his gut, in his chest... He wants it. He wants to take what's being offered...

But he can't. He can't do this. He can't let him in even more, can't care about this dying irradiated man-child. He can't see someone else die that he loves. And he can't hurt him. After all Nux has been through, he can't take advantage.

Max shifts abruptly to get into the car, but those slim fingers snag his bracelet, hold tight. For a minute Max considers going on, dragging him off the hood, hurting his pride to make distance. But he can't do it.

Everything forgive him but he needs this so bad all. The need is so strong he's weak with it. The ache is deadly. 

Half turning, Max casts a side glance at Nux, searching his face for something.

For the same need he feels. 

And he sees it. 

Blast it all he sees it.


	4. Touch

Max grabs Nux, trying so hard not to be rough, to be kind, careful of the cast on his arm, but he's aching. He's hard and hurting with it. He kisses him and it takes a minute to realise he's not kissing back. Nux doesn't know how.

Gentle now. Careful. "Open your mouth," Max groans, it's embarrassing how bad he needs. "Match what I do."

Nux picks it up quick. His mouth is rough and chapped and split, scarred. His skin turns red from the rough rub of Max's beard, it's sexy.

"Feels good," Nux whispers between kisses, sounding awed. Max presses in, kissing harder, licking his lips, wrapping an arm around Nux's shoulder to grab a fistful of his shirt at the base of his neck. "Max," he whispers. "Max."

Max realises he's pressing his dick against the grill of the car, rubbing, almost on the brink of cumming already. Embarrassing. 

Panting, he grabs the war boy's hand and, trying to control the piston explosion fire in his body, kisses the soft palm, those clever fingers. Lets his tongue slip out to lick between them. Nux gasps and his hips thrust up against Max's stomach.

Max wants to go slow, make it nice and good, but he just don't have time. It's been so long, lifetimes and ages and eons, he isn't gonna last.

He sucks one of those bony fingers into his mouth, tip of his tongue flicking against it, and again Nux thrusts against him, his legs wrapping around Max to pull him closer. 

Max undoes the boy's pants, loosening them enough to slide his hand in. He licks his palm and reaches in, grabs the hot firm flesh there. 

He forgot Nux is new to this, shocked when the boy cries out in ecstasy so strong it edges on agony.

Nux is shaking, about to slide right off the hood, so Max hoists him further up, pushes him back into a reclined position, he's easy to lift. Easy to manhandle. The thought brings Max almost to the brink. 

Instead he focuses, concentrates on Nux, on running his hand up and down his shaft. Nux pants and whines and thrusts into his hand without rhythm. Overwhelmed. Pale skin flushed and hot, burning through their clothes.

Firm stroke up, loose slide back down. Basic handjob. No frill. Don't need frill, the boy is collapsing under the weight of his looming orgasm. 

Nux's free hand, the one not in a cast, reaches out and brushes against Max's painful erection, at first a feather light touch then firmer, mapping out his dick trapped in his pants. 

Nux cums then, hard, panting and shouting incoherent. It's a gorgeous vision. But when he cries out, moaning "Max, Max" over and over, long legs pulling him in tight against the boy and the car, it brings his own orgasm. Collapsing on top of his squirming boy, Max grunts, shocked at the intensity of it. It's pleasure torture. 

Breathing harshly through his nose, willing his body down and calm, Max stands up on unsteady legs to survey the possible damage he'd done to his boy.

Nux lays there on the hood, flushed and sweaty and rumpled. Confused. Spaced out. So far as expected. No bad shocks. 

Uncertain but wanting the connection, wanting this intimacy now that he's opened himself to it, Max cups the war boy's face, runs his thumb over the scar on his cheek. 

After a few more hazy post moments, Nux yawns hugely and smiles. It breaks Max's heart even as it heals him to his core. "That's not sex I don't think?"

Max feels the hint of a smile on the corners of his mouth. Damn it all. "We're gonna take it slow," he replies.

Sitting up, Nux smiles again, even bigger. "I like kissing," he reports, his voice is victorious somehow.

"Yeah, me too." Stepping back, Max helps Nux slide off of the car hood and they both get in the car. They don't need to say anything more about it. In synch with each other.


	5. Sand

Max wakes up with sand on his face and in the wells of his eyes, fingers and nose and toes icy, and a burning heat on his groin. The sky is dark, deep, with stars and galaxies and universes floating serenely overhead.

Struggling to wakefulness, shaking his head to dislodge the drifting sands that settled over him, he looks to where Nux is curved at his side, pressed tight and hot against him, cast protectively nestled in between, his other hand burrowing beneath Max's belt to play with his dick, now half hard. 

The war boy doesn't know what he's doing but it still feels so good.

Nux watches Max's face, judging how good each new movement is. 

"I want more," Nux whispers.

Max's cock is at full attention now, needs more too. He undoes his pants, pulls himself out. He's going to be selfish but he doesn't care right now. "Put it in your mouth."

Nux slithers down to kneel between Max's legs, throwing the blanket off that covered them both. He grasps his dick in one hand and looks at it, thinking, before leaning down and putting his mouth around the head.

"Fuck," Max growls, hands clutching fistfuls of sand that pour unsatisfying away. "All the way in."

Nux slides down, then up, then back down, and Max arches his back as electricity shoots up his spine. Encouraged, Nux works faster, eager, teeth lightly scraping every so often to give him a burst of agonising pleasure.

Max pushes his head away before he can cum, not ready to be done, wanting to make his boy feel good too. He grabs Nux's shoulders, pulling him up, then his hips, settling Nux on his chest, knees around his head. Getting the idea, Nux fumbles his pants open and pulls himself out, pushing his straining dick down with his good hand so Max can take him into his mouth.

Grabbing the boy's hips, he rocks him back and forth, tongue playing along the underside of his dick. Nux moans and moans, unable to speak, brain melted as Max digs his fingers into his hips. His dick hardens further and Max pushes him back, they're not done yet.

Damn all Max loves handling him, loves how light and pliable he is. He rolls his hips and Nux gets the idea, settles on his back with Max between his legs.

He doesn't have the patience to grab supplies from the car, wants to orgasm now, so he settles for next best. Pushing both their pants further down, he spits furiously onto his palm then slicks them both up. Max wraps the boy's legs around his waist before lowering himself down, dicks side by side between the tight wetness of their bodies. 

Nux is gasping, quieter as he gets closer to orgasm, whimpering yes over and over. Max reaches between them and takes them both in hand, jerking them both off in tandem.

The war boy's legs tighten around him as he cums, hand grabbing a fistful of Max's hair at the base of his neck, silent as he tries to pull air into his lungs. He shoots all over his shirt, messy, sexy, and Max tips over and cums too. 

Panting, Max rolls over onto his back, body floating the galaxies above them on a brain chemical high. 

"So good," Nux murmurs.

"Still wasn't sex," Max replies.

Nux sits up to pull his shirt off, shivering when the cool air hits bare skin. "No fooling? There's more?" Max just grunts in the affirmative. Wonderingly, Nux looks down at Max's face. "There's more..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy times can't last, sorry lovebirds but you're about to suffer... 
> 
> Thank you for the comments everyone!! They give me liiiiiiiiife!!!!


	6. Dirt

They're being chased. 

It's a shit car, modified badly, looks like it shouldn't even be running. Mostly a raider vehicle, bits of whatever could be scavenged, it's an utter shit and weird car but it's fast and it's full.

War boys. But not really. Furiosa disbanded, reconstructed, demolished, rebuilt. And some boys didn't like it. Didn't like the matriarchy. Didn't like the emphasis on peace and defence and caution. Wanted war and chrome and blood and fire. Ex-war boys still riding on the angry high and the brain washing of the Immortan. Three or four, Max is too busy shooting while Nux hauls their asses across the endless sands to count.

Sliding, drifting, it's damn hard driving in shifting wasteland, but Nux is making him crazy proud. With a nice big gun with nice big shells in his hands, he doesn't worry overmuch. The boys got lances, got guns and grenades, but Max trusts.

He forgot though. Nux always gets the short end of the stick. Shitty fate for such a sad skinny boy. Bad patch of loose loose dune, perfectly timed and aimed lance, front wheel goes in a fiery pop.

The car flips.

Fire, guzzoline, gas, supplies, bags, it all goes flying.

It's weirdly silent in Max's head. Panic drowns his thoughts. Animal fear. Not just for himself anymore, that fear allowed him some breathing room in his head, let him plan. This fear for Nux is something else and it's making him sick. 

When the car finally stops sliding on its side, Max looks for Nux, panics because the boy is gone. The windshield had shattered and popped out, most of their shit had gone that way, he prays to the remorseless sun that his boy got clear of the wreck the same way.

Scrambling out the shieldless-window, Max grabs for the handgun at his hip but a nasty hard blow from someone perched on top of the car sends him to his knees. Not unconscious, but the blackness is closing around the edges of his sight and his brain is spinning in his skull. 

"Nnn-" he slurs, falling forward onto his hands. A kick to his side rolls him onto his back, writhing in pain. "Nnn-!"

Nux. Nux. His stupefied brain can't think of a single other thing. Just the boy's name over and over and over. A prayer, let him be safe. 

Nasty pale clay-covered hands grab him, haul him to his feet, hold him. 

He recognises the war boy in front of him, vaguely, somehow.

"We gonna take you and your shit and your car, you fucker," the boy snarls in his face, "and we're gonna get steel strong again and we're gonna kill those rusted bitches!"

A few solid punches to his gut steal his breath, then another solid hit with the butt of his own .22 send him to painful unconsciousness.

When Max opens his eyes, he's in hell. He recognises it. The bowels of the Citadel. Where he'd been shaved and tattooed and enslaved. Used for his blood. First thought, does Furiosa know she's housing her own enemies down here? Second thought, did Nux get away?

He's stuck, hands bound together and attached to a chain that snakes back to one of the hanging cages. The same ones he'd been in.

No muzzle this time, just a rag tied firm around his head and in his mouth.

There's a crowd of War Boys, maybe twenty or thirty. They're all on the other side of the room, arguing, lounging, eating, pissing, laughing. All ready for war in their white dust and oil warpaint. All scarred and damaged and vicious. Rabid almost. 

The big one that'd spoken before, massive scars running up from mouth to ears, badly stitched, forehead painted black with engine grease, he comes close, still out of reach of Max, but close enough. Not that Max could really hold his own against the boys, his head is still spinning and blurry and his stomach is rolling with nausea. 

"He's awake!" the stitched up boy yells, and the others rouse, cheering. Turning back to Max, he stares, a long moment, a black and pure rage in the pits of his eyes, and Max remembers. He was the one with Nux, he was the one on the back of Nux's car, his lancer. 

Decapito.

Max scoots quick back on his ass, trying to get away. This is worse than he thought. 

Laughing, another boy runs up and grabs Max's bare foot, dragging him forward. Max kicks out, misses, but the boy lets go and darts back. 

Laughing. Hollering. So much noise. Total chaos.

As if some silent signal is released, they swarm over Max. Eyes widening, panic takes total hold. He kicks, lashes out with his bound hands. Manages to grab one boy, toss him aside, kicks a few away, but the sheer numbers overwhelm him. 

He cowers, an animal now.

The yelling. The claustrophobic press of the bodies. Hands on him, pulling his hair, ripping his clothes, yanking his limbs. At first almost good natured, boys playing pranks, but it turns vicious fast. His eyes water and he howls behind the gag in pain as they rip hair from his scalp, bite hard enough to draw blood, pull his limbs so hard he thinks they've dislocated. 

"Mine!" the lancer bellows and the boys move back. Max is on his knees now, sagging forward as a group of boys hold him up by his agonised arms. "Me first."

Max is thrown to the dirt floor and he quickly scrambles away on all fours. Away, away, the primitive part of himself screams.

The chain stops him short, and a quick tug drags him back. Over the sounds of the angry amped up boys and their ceaseless chatter, he hears laughter. 

All night long. Hands on him. He's kept face down on the floor, they don't trust using his mouth, but they love using his ass.

The lancer is indeed first. He barely slicks his dick up before rudely shoving in, pushing Max's face into the dusty sandy floor, grinding it into the filth. As he pumps into Max, fucks him hard and angry, he whispers in his ear. Whispers filth that sets Max to howling. About Nux. About what this monstrous golem of a boy is going to do to him.

After he cums, he bites into Max's bicep, hard, harder, and it feels like he's taking a chunk with him. Snarling behind his gag, Max tries to buck him off, kick him away, but it's all on the war boy's terms now. When he's satisfied he lets go.

The next one comes. Kneads Max's ass roughly, painfully, before thrusting in. Shouts, laughter, screaming everywhere. Except Max is the only one screaming. 

He loses count.

A few roll him onto his back and stroke his dick to wakefulness, his body betraying him. They suck, they jerk, until he cums. It's worse than being fucked, somehow. 

When they're done with him, they leave him in the filth on the floor, naked, bleeding, bruised, drooling, and openly weeping. He's pretty sure they dislocated a few fingers, he's afraid to try to pop them back in with his hands bound, but he has to. He's able to pop two fingers back into place but has to use his chin and shoulder as a clamp to get the last one in. 

Agony. His own body now so used he feels like it isn't his own. It's his prison instead.

As Max's mind slowly comes back to him, as he stops being pure animal and more man, he ignores it all. The pain, the rape, the hopelessness. Instead he just prays Nux got away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does everyone want? More Max abused by War Boys or moving on to the next part?


	7. Chains

When Slit comes back much later, alone, Max is certain he's going to die.

He's chained in the most humiliating position possible, naked and bent forward over a rock bench, arms and legs chained apart, ass in the air. Displayed. 

He can almost see the heavy black boots stomping into the room, can hear the quiet rasping laughter, knows who came for him for him. Totally utterly fucked.

"Ohhh big bad banger!" Slit calls as he slowly sneaks, hunting walk, dragging out the fear. "Mad dog!" He snarls like a wild animal, hunkering forward, rushing the last few steps. Fingers like claws dig into the meat of his ass, deep, bruising, and Max howls behind his gag. Slit bites him, this time on the side of his lower back, sensitive soft flesh. Again Max yells in pain, shaking. Wants to rip the damn chains from the floor, wants to rip the boy's head off of his pasty shoulders and shove it up his ass.

Slit's laughing again, fucking foul bastard piece of shit, and Max rages, yanking furiously on the chains, slavering and foaming behind the gag. Animal.

There's a nasty hard slap on his ass, hard enough to send him to the balls of his feet. Before he can process what the hell just happened, another comes, same spot, blazing fiery pain.

"Bad boy," Slit hisses. The mirth is fading quick, replaced by a heavy panting lust that Max can almost smell. "Bad fucking dog." Another spank, and another, and another searing his round ass. Slit leans closer and breathes so hard Max can feel it.

Max tries to speak, tries to tell him to fuck off, tries to threaten to rip him limb from fucking limb then burn the remains so all that's left is a pile of greasy ash. It comes out as garbled nonsense, driving him crazier.

And Slit ignores the whole psycho tirade, lost in his own head. His hands stroke down Max's sides, rough and dry, kneading the flesh. Obsessively squeezing and stroking his ass.

The War Boy leans down and licks a line up between the cheeks, making him shudder. He leans in, his tongue probing, wetly piercing him, and Max's body turns traitor, dick starting to take notice of the surprisingly intense sensation.

"You're a blown fuckin' gasket," Slit hisses, "crazy rusty bastard. Bad dog." Rustling, movement, and then a cold and slick finger shoves its way into his ass.

Max jerks against the chains, but it's less ferocious. His will, his anger, is drawing back like the ocean from shore. Black depression, darkness, sapping his life from his very limbs, looming large, threatening to suffocate.

All thoughts of his boy are gone, the memory of Nux tucked back in a secret corner of his brain. Made small and safe. Now instead of that precious name, all he can think is that he hopes he dies quick.

Two fingers, invading, fucking him slow, and Max slumps, body going limp.

Dark chuckling. "Broke you. Broke you good." A third finger joins, it's rough misery, and Max chokes back his nausea. "Gonna finish the job."

The fingers are gone, replaced by his dick, thrusting in full length right from the start, burying himself. "Love this ass," he growls, fucking Max as rough and hard as he can. "Gonna fuck this ass every day, gonna make you bleed."

Max hisses in pain, every muscle tensing even though he knows it'll just make the pain worse. Can't help it. The burn is sick bad despite the lubrication.

Then the pain is gone, and Max struggles to breathe through his nose. Relief comes quick, the gag is removed, and he pants like the dog he's compared to.

Relief is not long-lived.

Slit is standing in front of him and grabs a fistful of hair, pulling his head up. "Listen to me, bad dog, listen close." He strokes Matt's spit-slick lips with his thumb, rubbing hard. "You bite me? I feel even the graze of your fuckin' canines? I pull 'em out. Extraction. One by one. Then I start on your eyes. Got me?"

Max stares into the War Boy's eyes, sees he means it. Means even worse. And almost is hoping for it. Wearily, Max lets his head drop in ascent. He got it. 

Slit grabs hold of his dick while cupping Max's chin with his other hand, pulling his head up as far as it can go. He's a big boy, has to bend his knees to be level.

Almost tenderly he strokes Max's face with his dick, rubbing it against his lips. Only when pressure is applied does Max opens his mouth, letting him push his length in.

It's hard to keep his mouth this wide open big, his jaw aches, his neck aches, but he struggles for it. Fights his own fatigue. Survival. Or, at the very least, death without agony. 

The War Boy fucks his mouth with abandon, close to orgasm already, grunting eagerly. When he cums, Max closes his throat to it and it spills out of his mouth around the invasive dick instead. 

Slit pulls out but still holds Max's face up, staring hungrily at it.

"Still got some fight, you big bastard, huh? Don't worry, I'm gonna make you my fucking wife, gonna train you right."

Tucking himself away, Slit runs his fingers through Max's dishevelled hair, almost affectionate, before leaving. Leaving him alone, covered in filth and misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So have you seen Tom Hardy's ass? Go google it. Google his MySpace photos and look for the nude one of his butt. It's cool, I'll wait. Then you'll understand where Slit's coming from in this fic better, lol.


	8. Stars

When rescue comes, it comes in two parts.

First, the rousting of the rats. Early the next morning. Max still draped and chained, dozing but pain keeping him from truly resting. Screams. Battle cries. It sounds like war boys, but tenfold, hundredfold the small guerrilla party that captured him.

A few unpainted boys with guns and spears and knives, bristling with weapons, stick their head in the room but leave when they see only a captive. They're here for blood.

It's Cheedo that actually undoes his chains.

Armored, steady gun ready to fire in her hand, brown hair elaborately braided away from her face. Still soft and sweet with her eyes proud and strong. She's been trained, and trained well.

Cheedo removes his gag, leaves then comes back with a set of keys. Helps him sit down and even rubs his wrists and numb hands. Leaves again, comes back again with pants and his boots this time.

He refuses to speak, and she understands, never saying a word.

By the time he's able to stand, she has already left. When he finally hobbles out of the room, body screaming, the rebel party is dead. Cheedo is a natural.

He is ashamed, unable to look at her. Unable to look at anyone.

Without words, she cups his elbow and guides him. Away from the smell of black powder and blood. They climb. Inclines, gentle slopes, steep stairs. They move away from the turmoil and hubbub and into quiet shadowed corridors.

She takes him to an empty stark room, only a curtained window and a small bed. Sends a war boy to bring water and soap and rags and food. Then leaves.

Max is grateful.

He cleans himself, eats, and sleeps. Keeps his mind empty except for the immediate task before him. Focuses on the rituals of living.

Quiet footsteps rouse him and in the gloom of evening he sees a slender figure taking out the dirty rags. Hope chokes him, blurs his vision, but it's not his boy. Simply another gangly-limbed ex-war boy. His heart shrivels into dust.

Capable comes the next day with more food and water and clothes. The war boys hadn't managed to destroy his jacket yet. Nor his bracelet. Max holds it and remembers when Nux touched it.

She asks what he wants. He tells her.

A car. Supplies. Freedom. Escape. 

It only takes two days.

One by one the young women come by. Dag and Toast. Curiosity and affection summon them. They leave saddened and confused. They expected love, the way they all love each other, a love borne of survival and care, but are met with a man made of stone.

Only Furiosa accepts his distance, his coldness. His quiet. She understands and forgives and lets him be. He's thankful.

The car has parts salvaged from his Interceptor. He recognizes it. Says nothing.

It's Cheedo that sees him off. She asks him, won't he stay? Won't he join them?

She doesn't expect an answer and he doesn't give one.

And then he leaves.

His second rescue is four nights later.

Each night when he stops to sleep, he lays a blanket out next to his car and stops, wondering why the hell he keeps doing it. He can't bring himself to stop, though. Can't even contemplate it.

When his brain edges into that territory, starts to remember, opens that box tucked in the corner of his mind full of love and hope and goodness, he feels the black cold taking it from him. Sucking the color out of those memories. Killing them until all that's left is what came before and after that peaceful time.

But the fourth night, out under the vast stars that seem so beautifully remote and peaceful, he's saved from his own darkness.

He wakes to fear. The sound of an engine, a motorcycle. His hand goes to his gun, set carefully on the blanket next to him.

Then the proximity of another sends the primitive part of his brain scrambling. Thoughts of invasive hateful touch.

But the smell, oil and sand and familiarity, the warmth pressed snugly against his side, hard cast tucked against his ribs, the quiet breathing on his neck, they all calm him.

Wide awake, laying on his back with his eyes full of stars, tears sneak down the sides of his face and the clouds in his heart begin to break up and drift away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't a sexy reunion, but it seems appropriate. Two survivors.  
> So Nux had already been at the Citadel. But no one knew about him and Max, since Max had sought him out after leaving. They never thought to mention Max was there until it was too late, at which point Nux had taken a motorcycle and chased after him. Only getting a little lost on the way.


End file.
